


Blood, Bone, and Beating Heart

by zuotian



Category: South Park
Genre: Allusions to Religious Imagery, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Anal Sex, Bank Robbery, Blood and Gore, Drabble, Immortality, Kenny is hotter than hell AND heaven ok, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Temporary Character Death, Violence, by my standards at least, poetic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25350181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: A routine mission goes south.Cartman is left unmoored by the fallout; Kenny, undead.
Relationships: Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick, The Coon/Mysterion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Blood, Bone, and Beating Heart

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has an origin story
> 
> i watched the old guard last night and immediately binged nearly every fic i could. i'm not yet brave enough to write for a new fandom but felt really inspired, so i literally sat down and spent all of today writing this out. if you couldn't tell, i've got a superhero verse cooked up and may write more for it at a later date. i love writing action scenes.
> 
> this is a "drabble" by my standards lol. i'm actually really proud of this one. everything just kinda fell into place.

Another day, another bank robbery. At this point the Coon wished for international terrorists, a new crime syndicate, or an alien invasion--anything other than Chaos’ predictable trickery. 

Predictable, but not without casualties. 

The Coon appraised the bank lobby’s blood-stained marble. Unwitting costumers lay dead in the same order they stood waiting to cash checks and make deposits. A crimson trail snaked in between their prone bodies behind the teller counter. 

Pistol at the ready, the Coon peered over the counter; his sights lined up with a sharp-suited man slumped on the floor. “Got a dead Jew.” 

His partner, Mysterion, ambled forward with an exasperated sigh. “Stop kidding around.” 

Mysterion swiftly hopped over the counter, landing with a whisper beside the body. The Coon didn’t need to see his face, presently enshrouded by a black cowl and purple hood, to know it crinkled in sympathetic grief as he lowered his gloved fingers from the man’s neck. 

Lacking Mysterion’s acrobatics, he rounded the counter and ran his hand under its lip until locating a telltale switch. “Must’ve went to hit the alarm. Bet Chaos’ grunts didn’t like that. Took out this guy, then they got nervous and shot up the whole place.” 

“He’s warm,” Mysterion murmured. “They can’t be far.” 

The Coon glanced at the open doorway behind them, still wafting smoke from the detonation within. 

Mysterion took point. Protected by their masks, their eyes did not water as they squinted through the fog. Crumbs of brick and linoleum plotted a course deep into the corridor, ending at a blown-out hole in the wall. 

They emerged into a back alley scored with tire tracks. A fallen duffel bag sat abandoned in the haste of escape. The Coon pocketed a few wads of cash in his utility belt. 

“Nominal superhero fee,” he explained. 

Mysterion bit his tongue. He looked up to find a security camera stationed beside a gutter line. 

“I’m on it,” the Coon said, flipping his Coonphone--which was really just a run of the mill burner--open and hitting speed dial. 

Call Girl answered on the first ring. “What do you need?” 

“Idiots left a camera intact. Can you get us a plate number?” 

“Tire treads are wide,” Mysterion noted. “Probably a van.” 

“Looking for a van,” the Coon relayed. 

“One second,” Call Girl said. Then, “Got it. I’m sending the picture to you as well as the authorities.” 

“I am the authorities,” the Coon said. 

Distant sirens wailed in objection to his proclamation. 

Call Girl laughed. “Whatever you say.” 

The line clicked off. 

“I hate that bitch,” the Coon said. A grainy photo of a white, inconspicuous van popped on his screen. He titled his Coonphone toward Mysterion, who nodded, before stowing it away. “Gonna wait for the cops? Pool our resources together?” 

Mysterion spun on his heels. “Fuck that.” 

They wired a parked car with ease and shot down the road--the Coon driving, Mysterion keeping lookout. 

“It’s either the construction site or the warehouses,” the Coon said, cutting a hard right around the block. 

Mysterion gripped the panic handle, using the momentum to stick his head out of the window. “That, or they got another safehouse somewhere since we trashed the factory.” 

The Coon piddled to a false brake as they neared a red light. “Take your pick.” 

“Warehouses.” 

The Coon expertly wove through the congested intersection and fishtailed left toward the city’s industrial zone, then pivoted off the main drag, crisscrossing through several side alleys and parking garages.  
  
The surrounding buildings diminished in size and grew more derelict, all covered in a film of grime. Chaos’ presence withheld city officials from gentrifying the area; thus doomed to permanent impoverishment, residents were forced into the same system from which their problems originated, many enlisted by the man who started it all. 

The Coon tightened his grip on the wheel, conscious of the fact they were on Chaos’ turf. Each passing white vehicle made his heart rate spike. “Anything?” he asked. 

“Not yet,” Mysterion said. “Keep going. We’re close.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I can feel it.” 

Cryptic fucking bastard he was, Mysterion’s hunches were usually on the mark. 

The Coon decelerated, bottlenecked into narrow roads characterized by fractured asphalt, listless drug addicts, and meandering prostitutes. 

“Think I just saw your brother slinging crack,” he jibed. 

“Think I just saw your mom on the corner,” Mysterion retorted. 

They each had their own reasons to detest crime’s destructive effects. 

The Coon rolled to a stop within a cloister of dark, abandoned warehouses. Each tossed shadows on one another, leaving the street clouded in meager sunlight. 

Mysterion pointed through the windshield. “There.” 

A white van with the same plate number Call Girl tracked down sat yards away, slanted cockeyed on the sidewalk. Mysterion and the Coon approached carefully, weapons drawn. A breeze rattled down the road, carrying oily trash; the van’s back doors creaked to reveal an empty cabin. 

Mysterion jerked his head toward the warehouse looming before them.

The Coon advanced. Mysterion jabbed an elbow into his gut and sidestepped in front of him. “I’m taking point.” 

“You always take point,” the Coon hissed. “It’s just Chaos, c’mon--” 

“I’m taking point,” Mysterion said in a tone that brokered no argument. 

They were greeted by a gutted interior. Stripped floorboards had been hammered over broken windows. Busted water pipes drip-drip-dripped in some unseen, desolate corner out of which rats materialized to scurry along the perimeter of the room. Mysterion and the Coon lightened their footfalls, but nothing could be done about the unavoidable glass and gravel that crunched with every one of their steps toward an eviscerated elevator shaft. 

“I don’t like this,” Mysterion mumbled. “It’s too quiet.” 

“Chaos isn’t subtle,” the Coon granted. “Think it’s a trap?” 

“This is all bullshit.” Mysterion tipped the muzzle of his gun to the floor and looked up the elevator shaft, his blue eyes electrified by a stubborn ray of sunlight. “How’d they get up there?” 

“Grappling hook,” the Coon guessed. He edged a couple paces away and toed a door open. “Or the stairs.” 

They took the stairs one at a time, pausing on each landing to gauge potential threats before carrying onward. After clearing a few floors--and skipping those which were too structurally unstable to house anyone--it became apparent they’d either been played, or their opponents were on the roof. Under the assumption they wouldn’t meet any assailants until reaching the top of the building, they dropped their guard by an inch and proceeded at a quicker pace. 

“Didn’t know Chaos had the budget for a chopper rendezvous,” Mysterion commented as they passed the eleventh floor marker. 

“Well,” the Coon wheezed, growing winded, “he does after today.” 

Mysterion glanced over his shoulder. “You’re outta shape.” 

“I’m the muscle of this operation. You’re the ninja.” 

“And the brains.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Fuck you.” 

The Coon smirked. “Get outta this alive, and I might just let you.” 

Mysterion turned back around. “I wasn’t asking.” 

“Still--” 

“Shut up.” Mysterion held out a hand. “We’re here.” 

They arrived at a door labeled ROOF ACCESS. 

The Coon shoveled his bangs off his forehead and wiped the sliver of skin between his mask and hairline. “Go time, baby.” 

Mysterion checked his magazine, then smacked shut it on his open palm. “Stay close.” 

“Always,” the Coon affirmed. 

Mysterion whirled to face him. “I mean it.” 

The Coon pulled him in for a rough kiss, nipped his bottom lip before shoving him away. “So did I, relax. In and out like usual, right?” 

“Right,” Mysterion said. He shook his nerves off and kicked the door open. 

They were immediately beset by a row of Chaos’ grunts, all toting rifles. 

“Give us one reason why we shouldn’t shoot you,” one called out. 

“Because,” the Coon replied, “I’m gonna shoot you first.” 

He fired at the grunt who had spoke. The rest scattered and pulled their triggers. The Coon and Mysterion broke apart and ducked behind opposite air vents. 

A spray of bullets pinged the cheap metal at the Coon’s back in a fruitless waste of ammunition. True to his name, Chaos did not instill discipline in his underlings. The Coon curled around the corner of his temporary shelter, firing during pauses in the deluge. He did not allow himself the luxury of checking on Mysterion when a singular lapse in concentration could spell his own demise; Call Girl worked off the field nowadays for the same reason, after what happened to Toolshed. 

Mysterion’s status was confirmed when a grenade arced through the air. The Coon twisted his ear into his shoulder, clapping his free hand over his other ear just as a clamorous bang erupted. He then rolled to his knees, trained his pistol on the top of the vent, and fired into the smoke at random, banking on statistics rather than accuracy, Mysterion doing the same, grunts not blown to bits felled by their lucky shots. 

The smoke parted in lazy swirls. Grunts littered the rooftop, dead or near death. After eliminating the stragglers, the Coon took in a breath tasting of blood and sulfur and climbed to his feet. “That was easy.” 

Mysterion mirrored him, scanning the carnage. “Too easy. Where’s the cash?” 

The Coon inspected the rooftop, frowning. The money was nowhere in sight. “Goddamn it!” 

“We’ve been set up,” Mysterion said. “They must’ve switched cars.” He pointed his thumb at the grunts. “Left these guys to throw us off.” 

The Coon stomped toward a groaning grunt and delivered a bullet between his eyes. “Fucking assholes!” 

“I’ll get a hold of Call Girl,” Mysterion said, trading his pistol for his unbranded burner. “We’ll regroup, figure out a game plan.” 

“You do that,” the Coon spat. 

He walked up and down the rooftop, kicking grunts to ensure their mortality, then turned his attention to the peripheral skyline. The industrial zone spread out squat and unimpressive, collared by Chaos’ influence, suffocated by the gleaming districts beyond. And here were the city’s sworn protectors, getting their balls busted by Chaos’ remote hand. 

Mysterion dropped his phone and crushed it under the heel of his boot. “Call Girl’s looking at half the city’s traffic cams. The cops cordoned the bank, too.” He strode forward, placed a placating touch on the Coon’s waist. “There’s nothing else we can do.” 

“So we just wait it out?” the Coon demanded. “You know we aren’t gonna get any new leads until they hold up some other bank, kill more people--” 

“What would do you have us do instead, storm Chaos’ headquarters?” 

“Yes!” 

Mysterion’s grip tightened--to protect, and restrain. “Get real, man.” 

The Coon shouldered out of his hold. “I’m sick of this crap! Chaos has the whole city by the balls, and he’s got us on these fucking goose hunts. We’ve had our thumbs up our asses ever since Toolshed--” 

“That’s enough,” Mysterion barked. 

The Coon turned away. “Stan died for nothing.” 

Mysterion flattened his chest against the Coon’s back. “And so will you if you don’t cool it. You can’t let Chaos get to your head, or else he wins.” 

“I know. I’m just...” The Coon dropped his head with a sigh. “I’m tired.” 

“Me too. We all are.” Mysterion pressed a kiss into the sweaty nape of his neck. “But a suicide mission ain’t gonna help nobody.” 

“Easy for you to say,” the Coon huffed. 

Mysterion’s lips curled against his skin. He surrendered to Mysterion’s embrace, afforded himself a moment of respite in the fading adrenaline, surrounded by dead bodies. Mysterion roved behind his earlobe and suckled the spot that always sent his knees weak. 

Breath hitched, his eyes opened half-lidded, and fell upon a live grunt aiming a rifle over one of his fallen comrades. 

The Coon froze. “Ken--” 

His pistol clattered to the ground as a bullet grazed his shoulder. He cried out and clamped his hand over the burning wound, teeth gritted. Another shot lanced past him, wildly off-mark. 

Mysterion grappled for his cape and yanked him flat on his back. “Stay here!” 

Before the Coon could argue Mysterion launched for his pistol and fired a desperate shot. The grunt pulled his dead associate on top of himself, using him as a meat shield. The Coon’s pistol clicked empty; Mysterion hastily discarded it and flourished a switchblade from a sheath on his thigh. Meanwhile, the Coon sluggishly picked himself up from the ground. 

The grunt jumped to his feet. Mysterion ducked low and aimed a sweeping kick at his ankles; he shuffled backwards and swung his rifle at the Coon, having realized their partnership extended beyond professional boundaries. 

With an enraged roar, Mysterion raised his knife and brought it down on the grunt’s leg. They smacked on top of one another. The grunt jammed the muzzle of his rifle into Mysterion’s sternum, creating distance between them, the blade bone-deep in his shin, only the handle visible. 

The Coon had since doubled back for another grunt’s rifle and presently strode forward, his injured shoulder sending flares of pain down his arm, weakening his grip on the rifle’s stock. 

“I’ll shoot him,” the grunt vowed. “I’ll kill him!” 

“Eric,” Mysterion coughed. 

The Coon unceremoniously discharged a bullet into Mysterion’s skull. A blossom of blood instantly bloomed and rained down the inside of his hood, darkening the purple fabric to black. 

The grunt shrieked, his rifle knocked askew by Mysterion’s dead weight. He received the same treatment bequeathed to Mysterion, the bridge of his nose exploding with an array of blood and viscera. 

The Coon tossed the rifle aside and ripped off his mask. He didn’t care if there were anymore grunts playing dead or that he was out in the open. He dropped to his knees as Eric Cartman, rolled Mysterion onto his back and removed his hood to reveal Kenny McCormick, postmortem. 

“I hate that trick,” he told Kenny, who stared up at him with blank, expressionless eyes. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that? But don’t worry.” He hitched Kenny into arms bridal style, ignoring the blood oozing out of his shoulder. “Just relax. Take it easy. I’ll do the rest all by myself, you fucking bastard.” 

Lugging your dead partner down ten flights of stairs proved to be hard work. Cartman gave up any sense of decency--which, to be fair, he never had in the first place--and dropped Kenny like a sack of potatoes on the seventh landing, then proceeded the rest of the way holding him by his ankles. Kenny’s head clunked on each step, drawing a trail of blood and brain matter in their wake. 

Cartman threw him into the back of the abandoned van and climbed behind the wheel, happy to see that the keys were dangling from the ignition and the tank was half-full. He put his mask back on before vaulting, full-throttle, down the road. 

He didn’t slow down or remove his disguise until they were well out of the city. Keeping clear of main highways where the police had stationed checkpoints looking for the very vehicle Cartman was driving, he looped south toward an unassuming, low-end suburb, and finally came to a stop in front of a two-story home bedecked by a sagging porch, parched lawn, and chainlink fence. 

He backed into the driveway in reverse, fitting the van between a rusty pickup truck and modest four-door sedan, then got out, unfastened the license plates, and opened up the back where Kenny’s body remained in a bloody, crumpled mess. 

“We’re home,” Cartman announced. Expecting no reply, he grasped Kenny’s ankles once more and dragged him around the rear of the house. 

He left Kenny on the kitchen floor, went upstairs to strip out of his ruined suit and take the longest shower of his life. After the blood of Chaos’ henchmen, Kenny, and his own funneled down the drain in an indistinguishable slurry, Cartman retrieved a kit from the medicine cabinet and stitched his shoulder one-handed, sitting on the toilet with a towel wrapped around his waist, his teeth clamped on the handle of Kenny’s hairbrush.

He returned downstairs redressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, knelt on the floor and parted Kenny’s blood-encrusted tresses of blond hair. The bleeding had stopped, but the crater in his skull hadn’t yet begun to close. Brain injuries always took the longest. Cartman’s rough extraction procedure certainly didn’t help, but it served Kenny right for depending on his get-out-of-jail-dead card every time shit went tits up. 

Cartman let him go, let his head crack against the tile floor, and took a beer into the living room. He sat down on the couch, flipped the TV to whatever they’d last had on, some B-list Netflix action movie, and drank half his beer before swiping his phone from the coffee table where he’d left it that morning. 

He thumbed to the number of Wendy Testaburger and hit call. 

“What’s up,” Cartman greeted. 

“Nothing much,” Wendy replied. “What’s up with you? You don’t usually call me.” As in speaking to her directly, shed of any alter ego, on an unsecured line. 

“Had a long day,” Cartman said. “Thought maybe you and I could go for drinks later.” 

“What about Kenny?” 

“Dumb piece of shit went and took a tumble at work. Fucked up his head, damn near got a concussion. So he’s gotta sit out tonight.” 

“Ah,” Wendy said. “Hope he feels better soon.” 

Cartman took a pull off his beer. “You know him. Nothing keeps him down for long.” 

“What time do you wanna get together?” 

Cartman glanced at the deplorable Kit-Cat clock Kenny had insisted on erecting above the TV, and was gobsmacked to find its tail wagging past only three in the afternoon. “Eight?” 

“Sure. Skeeter’s?” Wendy asked, which was code for one of their team’s hidden bases on the city outskirts. 

“Got in a fight there about a month ago,” Cartman joked, referring to an explosive argument between The Coon and Call Girl. “Dunno if I’m allowed on the premises.” 

Wendy snorted. “Well, maybe they’ll have forgotten about it by now.” She paused. “Keep me posted on Kenny.” 

Cartman polished off the last third of his beer. “Will do. See ya later.” 

“Bye, Cartman.” 

The line clicked off. 

Cartman let his phone slip in between the couch cushions and got up for another beer. He stepped around Kenny’s body en route to the fridge. A longsuffering moan followed the soft thud of the door. 

Cartman looked down. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” 

Kenny’s jaw unhinged and spilled a fountain of blood across the kitchen floor. “Not funny,” he slurred. 

“Am I laughing?” Cartman asked. He set his beer on the counter and sat down cross-legged, pulled Kenny’s head into his lap. 

“Stop,” Kenny whined, his still-exposed flesh chafing against Cartman’s sweatpants. 

Cartman angled Kenny’s shoulders so that his upper half was suspended in midair. Kenny wrapped his hands around Cartman’s wrists for leverage, breathing life back into himself, his cells multiplying by the second, regrowing tissue and bone and sinew and skin. 

A bullet clinked between Cartman’s legs. Kenny finally lowered his head and blinked away the remnants of death. His eyes reverted back to their standard lively hue, that of cloudless skies and mountain springs and open ocean. 

“I’m okay,” Kenny said. “I came back.” 

Cartman placed his palm on Kenny’s chest, needing to feel the reverberations of his heartbeat. “You don’t know how this works. You could have an expiration date.” 

“If I do have one, it wasn’t today.” 

“But if it was,” Cartman prompted. “I would’ve killed you.” Bile bubbled in his throat at the thought. He swallowed. “I’m done. I’m not doing it anymore. And fuck you for making me.” 

“Eric, we didn’t have any other option. He would’ve shot me anyway. Besides...” Kenny squeezed his wrists. “I’d rather you kill me than anybody else.” 

Cartman scowled. “Is that supposed to be fucking romantic?” 

“It’s the truth,” Kenny said. 

He sat up, inch by painful inch, slotting his spine against Cartman’s front. Cartman held him close, arms wrapped around his chest, ankles laced over his boots, and basked in his warmth, yearning to feel his bare skin, to see it flash white and refill with blood, to steal the oxygen out of his mouth and pour his own back in, to entangle themselves until nothing could pry them apart--not Chaos, not a bullet, not death itself. 

He didn’t realize he’d started crying until Kenny gently husked his arms, turned around, and wiped his tears away. 

“You’re such an asshole,” Cartman said. “You think you’re invincible, but you’re not. Nobody is.” Each tender pass Kenny gave his cheekbones broke him apart further. “I hate you, I hate you--” 

“I’m sorry,” Kenny whispered, like a softspoken apology could reimburse the countless times Cartman had to witness him die, over and over again, more often than not by his own hand. 

Cartman pawed at his jumpsuit. “You--you need to take this off.” 

Kenny unfastened the clasp at his throat. His cape puddled to the floor and his long hair fanned across his shoulders in greasy tendrils. Cartman brushed both aside, mouthed at his neck, his jaw, clutching him closer.

“Eric--” Kenny braced his palms on his chest. “Shower, now, please.” 

Cartman ran a bath instead of a shower, bathed Kenny like a child, personally ensuring that all his parts were properly arranged and in working order. He washed Kenny’s hair, massaged the invisible, inconsequential bullet wound, tested the firm shell of Kenny’s skull. 

Kenny surrendered to such doting, sitting weightless and deathless in water that had long since gone tepid and gray. When Cartman’s touch passed, chaste and absentminded, over his cock, he stilled Cartman’s hand and craned his neck for a slow, open-mouthed kiss, his revitalized blood illustrating itself in his thickening shaft. 

Cartman finished his ministrations with a newfound sense of urgency; Kenny inevitably grew impatient and rinsed himself, unplugged the drain with his toes, and climbed out of the tub. 

He marched into their bedroom and reclined on the bed. Cartman crawled over him, his hands and knees braced in the shadow Kenny’s wet, naked body painted in the sheets. Kenny divested him of his clothes, each movement of his limbs a miracle, every breath he breathed a benediction. Cartman wanted to be enveloped by him, to lay down and observe the machinations of his body, to absorb his life energy and be livened by it. 

He said as much in less poetic terms, whispered into the underside of Kenny’s jaw: “Fuck me.” 

Kenny hummed, the sound vibrating down the column of his throat. He deposited Cartman onto his back, rummaged the bedside table, returned with cold, lubed fingers Cartman opened willingly, instantaneously for. 

Not taking his eagerness for granted, Kenny patiently scissored him open, limned by the dusky sunset flickering through the window blinds. He leaned forward, contorting Cartman’s bent legs to the point of pain, three fingers knuckle-deep, and bit a landscape of bruises into Cartman’s clavicle. 

Cartman writhed, arching his skin to catch the sharp points of Kenny’s teeth. Kenny balmed the marks with his tongue and took a detour toward Cartman’s wounded shoulder, kissing around the haphazard bandage mottled with agitated blood. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked. It was to be expected in their line of work, but neither of them had accustomed to seeing one another in pain. 

Cartman groaned. “Does it matter?” 

“Yes,” Kenny said. He tucked his nose into Cartman’s jugular, snatched the breath Cartman expelled as he curled his fingers. “I might not come back next time, but you can’t come back at all.” 

“‘Tis but a flesh wound,” Cartman promised, flexing around Kenny’s fingers. 

Kenny probed deeper, stroked downward; Cartman’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and his cock twitched, spurting a dollop of pre-cum that Kenny licked away before straightening. He grasped Cartman’s plush thigh in one hand, stabilized his weeping shaft with the other, and snapped his hips. 

Cartman’s head bounced off the pillows. “Aw, fuck--” 

“Easy,” Kenny soothed. “I gotcha, I’m right here.” His hair shrunk into frizzy, flaxen waves that snagged on his parted lips, furrowed brow, and closed eyes. 

Every stab of Kenny’s cock inspired Cartman to shut his eyes, coil into himself and drown in the sensation, but he forced them to remain open, not wanting to miss a moment. He tracked the beads of sweat which trickled down Kenny’s temple, the water droplets skittering through Kenny’s chest hair, the shadowy convections of Kenny’s abdomen, the taut muscles of Kenny’s forearms. 

The heels of his feet slipped in the sheets, restless. “Kenny--” 

“Shhh,” Kenny murmured. He slowed his pace to a near standstill, reached down and stroked Cartman’s cock, which wasn’t so much soothing as it was torturous. “Everything’s alright, Eric.” 

“Kenny,” Cartman repeated. “Kenny, c’mere, please--Ah!” 

He clenched his eyes shut and clenched around Kenny’s cock, barreled under the force of it all as Kenny folded in half and arrested his mouth in a sloppy kiss. He boxed Kenny’s jaw in shaking hands, his whimpers and moans censored by Kenny’s tongue and teeth and palate. 

Their bodies slithered apart and squelched back together again, each impact sparking starbursts behind Cartman’s eyes and gunpowder through his veins. He was completely ensconced, housed by the architecture of Kenny’s entire being--blood, bone, and beating heart. 

Kenny unlatched their mouths, ordered Cartman to look at him, and Cartman did. Blue irises bore into him, colored by the limitless fervor of an immortal soul, netted by gold harp-string strands of hair. 

Cartman scrabbled his hands along Kenny’s back, searching for angel wings or demonic spikes. He found a pair of mortal shoulder blades and held onto them for purchase as he jutted his hips to match Kenny’s, purposely trapping his cock in the pressurized crevice between their bodies. 

“Ken,” he breathed, the only warning of his impending release. Kenny’s lips sought his nose, his chin, his cheeks, his mouth, his forehead, his hairline, each kiss forming a constellation. The fire in his belly grew hot enough to forge bullet casings. Lithe fingers closed around his shaft, pumped once, twice, three times--

Cartman tossed his head back on a silent scream. Aftershocks crashed through his body, exacerbated by Kenny’s loose fist and unrepentant thrusts. Kenny reeled backwards, rough and animalistic as he took advantage of Cartman’s pliant, post-orgasmic elasticity. 

Cartman channeled all of Kenny’s energy, his fat rippling in time with the creaking bedframe, his bare skin raking across the sheets; he bottled it up and locked it away in some deep part of himself that nothing could touch. Kenny laughed, spirited but not mean-spirited, buzzing with the rush of being alive, and came, his ejaculate the wax-stamp which sealed his soul within Cartman forever. 


End file.
